


catch a wave, take in the sweetness

by nishtabel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, they love each other very much and nothing bad will ever happen to them again, they own an inn together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21619255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishtabel/pseuds/nishtabel
Summary: Dedue grows his hair out. Ashe loves it.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 16
Kudos: 220





	catch a wave, take in the sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> i’m now the CEO of long-hair dedue

Ashe doesn’t know when Dedue decides to start growing his hair out—our rather, when he decides to stop cutting it. What Ashe does know is that, three years into their relationship, Dedue’s hair is longer than he’s ever seen it, and he’s not convinced that’s a bad thing.

“You never mentioned,” Ashe says one morning, still curled in bed on this lazy, Sunday morning.

Dedue spares him a glance over his shoulder, soft and warm and a little teasing, in that subtle way that Dedue has. “Mentioned what?”

“Your hair,” Ashe says. He shifts beneath the covers, relishing in the coolness of the sheets against his bare legs. He stretches, yawns. “You’re growing it out.”

Ashe doesn’t see, but he’s sure Dedue smiles. He can hear it in his voice. “I am, am I,” he replies, purposely vague and saccharine.

Ashe curls onto his back, arms reaching above his head to grab at a down pillow. “Yes.” He knows Dedue is teasing him, feels the warmth of that quiet playfulness heat his cheeks. “Were you waiting for me to notice?”

“Perhaps,” is all Dedue says. He’s sitting in front of the mirror in their quarters, white hair fanned out just around his shoulders. It catches at the nape of his neck as he moves, searching for their brush. _His_ brush, really; Ashe had bought it for himself, but only because he knew Dedue wouldn’t accept the gift. Instead, Ashe had bought it after a particularly lucrative weekend at the inn, eyes caught on the intricate silver detailing and yellowed bristles. The back had been shined to a mirror, Ashe’s face distorted and pale against the carving of two intwined lovers.

“How much?” he’d asked in a facsimile of bargaining. Like he hadn’t been sold the moment he saw it.

Dedue grasps it now, its shine somewhat dulled by the repeated, familiar use it’s seen over the last six months. Ashe watches as Dedue pulls it through his hair, bristles catching at his scalp before gliding smoothly through his hair. Ashe has never understood so much why Dedue insists on brushing his hair; it’s naturally straight, soft and smooth, with very little tendency to tangle. In all the times Ashe has run his fingers through it—in all the times Ashe has forced his hands into Dedue’e hair to pull him _closer_ , to tangle those gorgeous, silky strands _himself_ —Dedue’s hair has never once tangled, pulled or caught.

Perhaps it’s a product of the brushing, Ashe thinks. Or perhaps Dedue is naturally perfect. Both are easy to believe.

“How long will you grow it?” Ashe asks, finally moving to sit up. Soft silk catches at his shoulders as he shifts up, his own hair in a bird’s nest.

Still brushing, Dedue shrugs. Ashe can see his reflection in the mirror, watching Ashe with his bared, freckled shoulders. Even after all this time—after all the nights he’s spent in Dedue’s bed, all the mornings he’s woken up warm and sated here—Ashe can’t stop the blush that colors his cheeks, nor the heat that burns at the tip of his ears. Dedue’s gaze never fails to make him feel hungry.

Ashe waits. For all of their gentle, easy comraderie, Dedue remains a man of few words. Ashe knows this; he can hardly complain, when Dedue chooses every morning to wake up next to him. To kiss his temple and brush the hair from his forehead. To steal away bread from their own kitchens, when Ashe is too sleepy and lazy and fucked-out to get it himself.

So, he waits. He waits, and he watches: the shift of Dedue’s thick muscles beneath the scarred flesh of his shoulders, his arms, his back. The soft curtain of white hair that sweeps across the nape of his neck, just-too-short to catch and hold behind his shoulders. The easy curve of Dedue’s knuckles around the handle of the brush, blunt, callused fingers so charming and graceful where they wrap around the burnished silver.

(Ashe had learned, much to his chagrin, that the brush was only silver-plated, and was in fact bronze underneath. Spots of gold shown through now, silver worn from the ridges by months of careful use.

“They tricked me,” he’d pouted, arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s a brush,” Dedue had replied. “It’s still just as useful as it was when it was covered in silver.”

Ashe had paused. “Yeah, but,” he’d tried, frowning. “It was supposed to be special.”

Dedue had smiled at him. “It still is, Ashe.”)

Finally, Dedue finishes. With great care—always with great care—he sets the brush aside on their vanity and tucks his hair behind an ear. He’ll tie it up before he goes out, Ashe knows, but for now, he’ll leave it loose. Ashe prefers it this way; it makes him more vulnerable, more approachable. It softens the hard cut of his jaw, the scars on his lips, the furrow of his brow. It makes Dedue human—and his.

“It looks nice,” Ashe offers, voice a bit breathless.

“Thank you.” Dedue pauses, considering something. The curve of his mouth is easy, warm, and Ashe feels his face heat when Dedue looks him over. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

It’s teasing, it always is, but Ashe is still struck with an irrational worry that Dedue doesn’t know—doesn’t fully grasp or understand or _accept_ —how much Ashe loves him, how relentlessly his thoughts turn to him throughout the day, how a single glance at him is enough to settle Ashe’s nerves. How could Ashe ever look at Dedue, and not be overwhelmed by—?

“You’re perfect,” Ashe says, and it’s not what he means to say, he knows it’s not what Dedue wants to hear, but it’s what his tongue moves to say. He purses his lips, licks them, speaks before Dedue can reprimand him. “I mean, I know you’re not,” he amends, and Dedue cocks his head. “I know you’re not perfect. I know you’re human like me, like the rest of us, but.” He swallows. Three years, and looking at Dedue is still like staring into the sun. “You’re perfect. For me.”

Dedue nods, accepting this. “For you,” he echoes. A smile splits his lips, showing perfectly white teeth. “Always for you, Ashe.”

“I love you,” Ashe blurts, and then laughs. Giggles. He flops back down onto the bed and rolls beneath the covers, the childish half of him praying that Dedue will follow him. He blinks beneath the soft, warm cotton of his blankets, biting his lip. He won’t peek, he tells himself. He’ll win this round.

He peeks.

Dedue falls down onto the bed, knees on either side of Ashe’s body where it’s curled beneath the blankets. Ashe yelps—always yelps, always giggles in delight—when Dedue’s hands settle on either side of his head, palms flat against the bed but close enough to feel the heat radiating from Ashe’s cheeks.

Dedue’s still smiling at him, face softened by the morning light that filters through his hair. Two strands tickle Ashe’s nose, and Ashe swats at them.

“Ow,” he says, nonsensically. “Get your hair away from me.” He bites his lip, thirteen and bashful again. He’s never learned to flirt any other way.

“Hm?” Dedue says, leaning closer. “Is something the matter?”

“Your hair—” Ashe gasps as Dedue falls upon him, nosing at his neck and dragging one big hand to tickle his ribs. Ashe squeals. “Dedue, Dedue, stop—” But laughter peals from his throat, honeyed on his tongue as Dedue teases and tickles him, soft hair catching at his chin, his collarbone, the top of his chest. It tickles everywhere Dedue doesn’t, and Ashe shoves half-heartedly at Dedue’s shoulders.

Dedue pauses to let him breathe once tears begin to clump Ashe’s lashes. “Easy,” Dedue says, and Ashe giggles, half-manic and jittery everywhere Dedue touches him. His broad hands are still and warm against his hips.

“Easy, yourself,” Ashe replies. It’s silly, Ashe knows it’s silly, but there’s something about Dedue that _makes_ him silly.

“Only for you,” Dedue murmurs, and Ashe agrees.

“You promise?” Sillier, now, but Ashe rolls his hips up, testing the weight and warmth of Dedue’s body above him.

Dedue hisses, groans just a bit, a choked-off sound that barely makes it past his throat. “Always,” he says, and leans down to bite at Ashe’s lips. “Always, Ashe.”


End file.
